*waggles fingers at you* Hello again. I am deeply sorry for the delay of this chapter. I jokingly say that by the time I am done with this story, I will be the only one left in the fandom, but I hope that is not the case. To those of you who have reviewed, please be assured that I am very appreciative of the support and have read and reread your comments. :)

I would like to give my sincerest thanks to Ellobeastie from for some authentic British terms for this fiction. She has been an ongoing resource for all things British, and she is pretty much awesome.

I would like to ESPECIALLY thank my muse, AffableKiwi, for her effervescent and persistent love that helps me recall that others cannot really read this story if it is still in my head. Because the constraints on my free time are so heavy, it is the vocal readers who really give me the boost to shut up and write. *bows*

My most sincere apologies for leaving the last chapter on such a cliffhanger! There is plenty of back story and fluff and character development and tension in this chapter to hopefully make up for it!

-CaladriaHaru

And therefore a prince who does not understand the art of war, over and above the other misfortunes already mentioned, cannot be respected by his soldiers, nor can he rely on them. He ought never, therefore, to have out of his thoughts this subject of war, and in peace he should addict himself more to its exercise than in war; this he can do in two ways, the one by action, the other by study.

-Niccolo Machiavelli The Prince

Chapter 4: The Game of Kings

"I have murdered before. Twice."

The charcoal-haired boy is speechless. His eye narrows and then widens slightly. There is no falsehood in the blue flames, no regret, no remorse at such a confession…it is a facet of Alois he has not even considered. And he believes him.

"How? Why?"

Alois turns his golden head towards the darkness. When he looks back, the blue flame of madness is gone and he lays down, propping himself on one hand. "I told you that I was in a pretty illegal business. It brings out…the worst kind of customers sometimes. I purveyed a service, but sometimes…the buyers would try to get more than what they paid for. It's illegal, for them and for me, and although that means I didn't have much protection, neither did they. 'Buyer beware.'

"As for how? Both times," Alois draws his finger across his neck in a fairly universal gesture. "The first guy…he was into that strangling thing. I wasn't. It was an alley near the river. Both of that fucker's hands were on my neck. My hand was on my blade. It was…instinctual, happened so fast." Alois looks at the candle. "I was…really calm the whole time. I stripped all my clothes. I pulled him out of his coat, took his wallet, and put on his smelly, sweaty shirt. I set all of my clothes and his coat on fire with the matches he had in his pocket. While it burned I dumped him into the river. As the fire bells were ringing I danced back home. And I mean…I pretty much danced."

Alois pauses. He puts his arms behind him, and lounges his head on them as if he had just explained what he had had for lunch that day. The blond-haired boy looks up at Ciel to see how he is taking it.

Ciel is quiet and thoughtful. His eye betrays nothing from within his shielded barrier.

"And the other one?"

Alois makes a small sound like a disgusted chuckle. It chills Ciel to the core.

"Killing him was a gift to humanity."

"What do you mean?"

Alois runs his tongue over his bottom lip and then purses them together. "That guy…I'll just make the long story short. You know how London gets a new serial killer every few years? Twisted fucks who carve out women's intestines or cut off willies and make their owners eat them?"

Ciel hadn't heard of the last one, but… "Yes? I don't get much news about London here."

"Right. So, you probably didn't know that last year there was some wacko torturing and killing boys, leaving them in dirty hovels for the police."

"No, I didn't…wait…"

"I know how to pick 'em, right?" He thumbs his chest, "I was almost a statistic. A trophy."

Ciel cannot believe his ears. He stares at Alois with his one good eye, boring out any detectable falsehoods. "You…killed….a serial killer?"

"I had no idea it was him until…" Alois shrugs, but his blue-eyed counterpart sees the azure flame burning again. "It was something like…two days. Tied up. Drugged, not drugged, whipped, and…and I wanted, very much, to kill him. Not to save anyone else after me, not to help the police, not for the Queen or for any other bullshit like that. I didn't have anything left in my life; I was trash to the world. But…for what he did. I wanted…to…kill…him. It was all I thought about."

Alois stares at the dwindling candle. Dredging up the memory of those cold, emotionless days was far easier than remembering his brother's sweet smile. The precision, the accuracy of his kick, right to the groin, his tied wrists thrown over and around that neck and the strange superhuman strength that accompanied the feeling of power. Finally. Power.

Ciel feels slightly embarrassed for being drawn into this story, but the similarities in many respects to his own condition, his own feelings, is compelling. How many times had he quietly murdered Claude Faustus in his mind late at night when the happy memories of his childhood could no longer comfort him?

"How…how did you kill him?"

Alois sees Ciel's face. It is a mirror.

"He made a mistake, and I can be a very talented actor when I put my mind to it. Strangled that bastard with the rope he used to tie me up. I got out of there and let the cops find him." Alois sits up suddenly and leans towards Ciel, causing the other boy to draw back slightly at his intensity.

"Here's the total fucking irony. Investigating the murderer's murder is what got me caught."

Ciel raises an eyebrow.

"Took me almost two weeks to heal up from that adventure. In the meantime, I was starving, so I took the first job I could get my hands on. Turns out it was a fucking inspector from Scotland Yard undercover. He had heard from a guy who knew a girl who knew some other schmuck who knew where I frequented. Whatever. However they do their job."

"But…they didn't try you for murder?"

"Not enough evidence or something. I don't know. Ciel, when you're a kid they don't tell you shit in a jail cell, and you keep your mouth shut unless it's going to for sure get you a handout." Alois sits back on his legs, hands on the comforter between them like a toddler. "I think that inspector knew. I think he knew for sure, but he came and told me he wanted to help put me on the straight and narrow. Really, too much of a nice guy for his job. Too nice. Probably has a brood of rug rats at home."

"And…that's how you ended up here?" Ciel connects all of the dots.

"Yeah. Nice, huh? Letting a murderer loose in this 'home?'"

Ciel looks away. "You are so casual about it."

Alois' blond brows tilt forward and the smile fades. "Ciel, those bastards were all dicks. They had it coming. There are probably a million like them that should go down, and that Faustus fucker is at the very very top of the list right now."

Ciel shakes his head slowly. The thoughts crowding his brain are terrifying because they all contain the headmaster's cold, calculating gaze. And on top of it all, Alois…a murderer at 13. Twice a murderer. How could a boy who bounces so much have upon his shoulders the weight of homicide? But the answer to that at least was clear, wasn't it? Alois didn't feel the weight at all. In his mind, he was free of all guilt. Alois claimed he had nothing left to lose. Wasn't that the same as him?

No, it wasn't the same. Ciel had still one thing left to cling to.

He shakes his head. "I will not stoop to murder. The headmaster is a detestable creature, but I will not fall to his level or worse."

The blond-haired boy stares at Ciel in confusion. "How- no, please, explain-how does it get worse? Does he have to kill you?"

Ciel's head whips towards the other boy, a flare of anger tingling beneath his skin, before he realizes that it is pointless. Based upon his own life experiences, Alois cannot possibly understand. Still, something in the nature of the flow of this conversation prompts the smaller boy, for some reason, to try to explain. "If I live or if I die I will do so with my pride intact. That is all there is. My father was a proud, respected businessman. My mother was honorable and faithful. He can sully my body, but if he cannot have that last inch of me, then, no matter how much power he has, no matter…then I will have won. When I leave this place, I will shed my memories and become the man my father would have been proud to see. I will not allow it to taint me."

Ciel closes his mouth abruptly and swallows. He has never spoken so much at one time since before the fire. There is something strangely compelling about Alois, even though Ciel had spent the first week and a half of their acquaintance listening with only half an ear. He had come to believe at some point that he was using Alois for the measure of comfort his presence provided, the protection from the bullies who had all but disappeared since he had allowed Alois to dance around him, but now it was starting to crystallize: Alois plucked some string inside the barrier of his closed heart, a string he thought had snapped.

And Alois might be truly, deeply, disturbed.

"You make it sound like I don't have any pride at all."

Ciel looks at the other boy out of the corner of his eye. Alois' voice is low, not accusatory-hurt, perhaps. The boy with the charcoal hair says nothing because he does not know how to respond without hazarding a complete insult. Thankfully, Alois has already seen through him.

"I have pride, but…I had to make my own rules for it." Alois gets up and stretches. He bends over, cracks his back, and then stands up, reaching his arms to heaven, his gazing following them, before he looks back down to Ciel.

"I'm not like you, Ciel. I'm not really book smart, and I don't have the luxury, the desire, or the ability to plan ahead. You talk about what kind of man you plan to be when you leave here like it was printed in that book you love so much. I believe you can do that. You have more willpower than anyone I've ever met. Me? I can't plan ahead, so I decide what's going to let me keep my pride minute by minute. For example, when Robert, that boy, was taunting you, throwing stones? I saw it and I said to myself, 'stop that asshole, Alois, or you are worthless.' So I did it. Four nights ago I was lying awake in bed, surrounded by all of these helpless little cogs, and I thought, Alois, go steal some candy from the locked cabinet in the kitchen or you're officially the most useless little cog here. So I did." He pauses in his story to drop instantly to his knees in front of Ciel. "Incidentally, I have a whole bag of taffy. I tried to decide what your favorite flavor was, but we've never talked about taffy. What is it? Orange? Vanilla? I thought maybe vanilla…"

"Alois!" Ciel blinks. This boy…but it begins to explain things. Notably, the candy-sweet breath he perpetually maintains, the taste of it on his tongue…The boy with the one good eye flushes.

Alois sees the response and comes to his own decision about the blush's source. "You were just thinking of sharing taffy with me weren't you, just now?" He points to his own lips and his grin is rakish and completely inappropriate.

Ciel sputters. His eye twitches and he physically turns his body from that look lest the memories of illicit and shameful contact earlier that night cause him to burn through the comforter around him. As it is, he has noticed the chill of the air no longer touches him.

"Hey, hey now! You've kissed me without candy incentive! I just thought, you know, since 'nothing is going to come of boy kissing' that I might at least make something come of it. A sugar high? I'm not stingy." Alois crawls on his hands and knees around Ciel's physical barrier to taunt him with a giggle.

To his horror, Ciel finds himself turning his head to stare at the wall like a small child. "What kind of creature are you, Alois Trancy? Stop this nonsense." It is his most imperious voice that brooks no argument, but he feels right ridiculous for having to employ it in this situation.

Alois sighs and leans back on his calves. "I don't know."

Ciel does not move for a few seconds, unsure of whether this is merely a continuation of the taunt, but when Alois is too silent he turns his head slightly. Alois' shoulders are bent. His hands lie listlessly on the coverlet, and he is staring, presumably, at its weave.

In spite of himself, Ciel feels a twinge of something somewhere inside his chest. There is a wrongness about Alois' pose at this moment; it is too defeated, too crushed beneath a weight that Ciel cannot see.

"I don't know what I am. I'm not a son anymore. I'm not a brother anymore. I'm not even a whore anymore. I feel like I am waiting to become someone, and I think I know what that someone has to be…"

Ciel waits. In the dim light of the library there is a unique atmosphere he has never felt in this place: A sense of being thoroughly outside of time, outside of England, outside, even, himself- a safe place where, perhaps, miraculous things could happen as they did in books.

Alois raises his eyes and the two blue orbs have within them that fire that Ciel has come to associate with passion. And the smaller boy is strangely relieved to see it has not gone.

"Look at me. I completely forgot what I was saying a moment ago. The thought of you and a piece of taffy between our lips just knocked everything else out of my brain." He hits the side of his fluffy blond curls with the heel of his right hand, but the smile on his face is not the same as the one that had danced across it a second earlier.

Ciel gives him an acidic look, but cannot fully bring himself to brush the nonsense away. "You were saying that you cannot plan ahead."

"Right!" Alois picks up the thread as if he had never dropped it. "I can't make plans. I can't figure it out, I can't…" he waves his hand, "see the bigger picture. I thought about killing Robert once, when he said something creepy and unforgivable about you, but I didn't actually declare it. I didn't declare it because I couldn't figure out how to go about it without a convenient river to toss him into. See? This is where we need to work together." Alois slaps both hands on Ciel's comforter-clad legs to emphasize his point.

Ciel raises an eyebrow. It is impossible to tell whether or not Alois is serious because he treats so many issues with the same level of casual detachment. He decides to gloss over the contemplated murder of a boy in favor of the ludicrous theme of his rant. "I fail to see how I am in any way implicated in your shortcomings."

"Okay, follow me here," Alois begins, as if Ciel is the one with the inability to maintain focus. He stands up, unable to keep still, and begins to pace. "You have the will power and the intelligence, and the foresight but you don't take initiative to make any changes. I have the bullocks and the will and all the initiative in the universe but no idea how to make it all come together. See? If you can turn this attitude around, get behind the idea that Faustus can completely go to hell, then I can be your fist, your dagger, whatever is needed." He stops abruptly and drops down into a crouch in front of Ciel, his hands nervously clutching around his own knees like a five-year-old boy inspecting a crack in the ground. "I can be your power, Ciel. That's who I want to be. That's what I want to become."

This is a pivotal moment; the thin, frail boy understands this. It is the reason that his energetic companion of late has taken such great pains to bring him here, whether or not he had had the foresight to plan it. Alois wants him to say yes, to agree to draw him deeply into the complicated structure of pain that stands around Ciel like a prison.

But he cannot.

Ciel's expression is cold. He is locking things away like cleaning up a room. Alois has spent the last few moments kicking every skeleton from his closet, opening the contents of his drawers and flinging his britches everywhere. He has cracked the mirror in that inner room where once he understood the order of each thing. In a moment of weakness and curiosity Ciel had allowed it all to be exposed…but now that the moment is over, it is time to right his universe once more.

The truth is that Alois Trancy can no more be his "power" than a hairbrush; a hairbrush had a function, a nice one, an appreciated function, but after one's hair was brushed it had to sit upon the dresser and simply be a brush. A brush cannot extricate him from the complicated labyrinth of Claude Faustus' games. It cannot become even a true weapon, lacking sharp edges or enough weight to make a difference. No, at the end of the day, he is surprised to find that he enjoys Alois' affections and attentions, but that is where it must end. No matter the pleading look now in the other boy's expression, Ciel will not take the chance. If he attempts to expose his abuse, no matter the means, the only one who will lose is himself. He is locked in a battle of wills with the headmaster, and that is an exclusive competition.

Alois' face falls. He can see Ciel retreating from him and it is like watching a small puppy get washed away by a tidal wave. It is like watching Luka die…again.

"Ciel!" He grabs his hand as if by doing so he can somehow bring them both back…but the current is too strong.

Ciel stands up suddenly, and Alois is surprised by the action. He stands up too, rubbing the back of his hand over wet eyes hastily.

"Do you know how to play chess?"

Alois blinks. It is his turn to be caught off guard.

"No…"

"Come." Ciel picks up the bit of candle and walks right out of his comforter, chin up, straight-backed, a mini emperor, and Alois must follow after him. The light proceeds before the smaller boy like a beacon, half illuminating all of the literary treasures in the library. The taller boy must watch his step, but he is captured by the moment, curious, the devastating loss of a second ago diminished by this unprompted invitation.

Ciel stops in front of a small round table with a chess board inlaid into the wood made of some kind of expensive quarried stone. He looks around with his one blue eye and then drops down to a crouch with the candle to search below. The wavering yellow light exposes a brown leather box of some kind with brass clasps. Ciel gently sets the candle on the floor near it and uses both hands to undo the closures, opening the box to Alois who leans over his shoulder. Inside is a beautiful set of chess pieces, clearly hand-carved and reflecting the candle's light with little, glittering specks: white marble shot through with black veins, and black marble with white veins. Ciel is reverent before the set as a priest before an altar. He picks up a piece crowned with a cross at its apex.

"This is the king piece," he explains academically. "It is the piece by which you lose the game, making it the most important, but it has the least amount of power."

Alois' eyebrows crease and he leans forward to take it from Ciel's hand. "That's bullocks."

Ciel smiles in spite of everything.

"That is how games of any value are ever won. The game is not truly played with the king; it is played with the pawns, the bishops, the rooks, the knights, and the queen. On the one hand, it is an elementary task to learn the different moves of each piece, but it is an elaborate test of one's ability to judge an opponent, to plan several steps in advance, to sacrifice and feint and attack to a 'check mate.'" His hand runs respectfully over the pieces he has come to see as almost Grail-like in his quest to win his own game with the headmaster. "It is a game that is not a game. It was used to train young lords and kings in ages past to be shrewd tacticians, to be efficient rulers. This, and the book I study, together, hold the key…"

"Teach it to me."

Ciel stops in mid breath at the absolutely ludicrous demand that has just issued from the blond boy's mouth.

"What?"

"You said it was 'elementary' to learn the moves. If I have your fancy speech down, what you're saying is that an idiot can learn the rules, and if you get really good at it, you can learn to plan ahead and beat the asshole you're playing, right?" The fiery blue sparkle in Alois' eyes alights on the king piece, and it is no coincidence that he shifts his gaze from the piece to the small boy now aiming a disbelieving look in his direction.

"That is, essentially, what I said, but to be even a mediocre player requires great focus and patience, two qualities which you have already admitted are lacking in your personality." Ciel takes the king piece back as if the matter was closed and replaces it with the others in the box, shutting and latching it once more.

"You don't think I can be taught?"

Ciel shakes his head. "It is not a matter of 'being taught' if you do not have the most rudimentary mindset to begin. Such a thing would be a waste of time."

Alois' expression is of one who has been slapped, but while his face darkens and his fists clench, he does not retaliate. This is Ciel. This is his way. Ciel only has one eye left, and it is perpetually closed to all possibility, but the blond-haired boy is not about to give up.

"What…what would prove to you that I can do this?"

The smaller boy stands and unconsciously shudders in the cold which he has begun to feel again. "Prove?"

"Yes, tell me. Something that I could…show you, that I can be taught, that I will learn."

Ciel is about to tell this boy to give it up. He is tired, this night has been taxing, and it is late, but he remembers the sensation in his heart earlier when he saw the blue fire in those eyes die down and, for some reason he cannot fathom, he does not want to see it go out again. Besides, this chess board, the richest, most beautiful centerpiece of the entire orphanage, has been greedily locked away by his tormentor; he is only able to play it when Claude Faustus has a use for the experience in his sick mind games. Like Ciel, it has been twisted by suffering, its once noble purpose broken, and such a travesty does not sit well with the young man. Perhaps this experience could be a ticket to at least a partial redemption…for both of them.

"Learn to read."

Alois blinks. "I want you to teach me that too…"

Ciel raises a hand like a prince who will not argue trivialities with a whining peasant. "I may supplement the lessons, but you admitted yourself that you cannot concentrate in your classes because it is boring and beneath you. If you wish to learn how to play chess then the first lesson is to observe all of the opportunities presented to you, even if they do not appear like opportunities. That is the cornerstone understanding. It is the only compromise I will make."

It does not take long for the taller boy to agree. This was not what he wanted, but in some ways it is more than what he wanted. The cold, insulated, lonely boy's attitude has changed slightly, he can feel it. Though Alois knows his offer to be Ciel's power has been summarily rejected, he has not been rejected. A week and a half ago Ciel barely knew he existed and was surrounded by a wall of pure granite. Tonight this same boy offers to teach him something of incredible value. Two things. Well, one and a half. Perhaps if he can learn, then there is still hope that Ciel could someday take a measure of his own advice and see the opportunities with which he is presented.

"Deal." Alois agrees. He spits into his palm and holds it out to Ciel with a maddeningly triumphant grin. Ciel stares at his hand and his expression becomes thoroughly bland and unamused.

"That will do."

Alois slaps Ciel's back with the moist palm and giggles. There was something, finally, in this dreary and dead place to look forward to.

The next morning…

Ciel is exhausted when he is roused for his studies. Despite the bright moments in an otherwise dim and dark life the night before, he wakes with the calm assurance that Claude Faustus is ninety-nine percent likely to interrupt the last five minutes of his math studies to begin his "French lessons" today. Had Ciel been informed that he was the heir to a multi-million pound empire and could leave this accursed place in twenty-four hours, it would not alter the anguish in his heart. His fingers shake and falter as he ties the eye patch around his forehead, and his knees tremble as he pulls himself out of bed. Ciel, however, does not believe in hiding from his reality. To maintain his pride, he must face it with dignity.

At lunch Alois is nowhere to be found, again, and the cold boy is not the type to solicit information from his peers, the majority of whom already regard him as either being cursed (because of his continued patronage of a known haunted statue in the courtyard), displaying an excessively arrogant personality (the boy himself agrees with this assessment), and having far too much privileged time with the headmaster. Thus, the boy with the one blue eye sits in an isolated place in the refectory, ignoring his food and bracing himself for a scolding about his eating habits by Cook on top of his impending psychological and physical abuse. He wonders where Alois is, today of days, when he overhears something unbelievable from a table over.

Something miraculous…

Stunned, but hardly daring to pin a hope on lunch chatter, he clears his place early to have his daily scolding over and done with so that he may arrive a few moments before his letters lesson. The teacher, Professor Alfred, is a notorious gossip at the home, though he takes a modicum of care to keep his wellspring of information from thirsty student lips. A modicum of care only, however. Standing around the corner to the classroom, clutching his over-heavy burden of books, the boy with the charcoal hair is given a taste of Professor Alfred's shallow waters.

Punctuated with personal editorial, Professor Alfred discusses with Professor Dawson the decision by the board of the orphanage of St. Sebastian to deny the headmaster's designs to pull down the statue of its patron saint in the courtyard. Despite his contributions to the establishment and his de facto power as its director, the board ruled that there was not enough reason for Claude Faustus to obliterate the ancient and venerated statue of their patron saint that has stood solid for over 100 years and had been twice repaired through the generosity of an anonymous benefactor. Professor Alfred went on to divulge Faustus' argument that the statue was in disrepair and a danger to the boys. The board apparently ruled that an investigation of the claim would begin and steps taken to repair or replace the statue if necessary.

Ciel feels his legs become weak. He has forgotten to breathe for the last few moments. When he takes a breath, he sounds and feels like a fish that has been miraculously set free from the hook and thrown back into the concealing and comforting waters. In response to his gasp, Professor Alfred's head appears around the corner, but Ciel does not run. He sees the professor's lips moving, hears a tone that sounds chiding and displeased, but the boy with the one blue eye and the body covered in scars and burns cannot respond to him; he is thoroughly absorbed by this apparent change of the tide.

This is the truth: The statue of St. Sebastian, like his namesake, has survived the first attempt on its life. It has been given a reprieve. And if past board rulings where an "investigation" was ordered were any indication, then the reprieve could very well be indefinite. That cold statue, that face and presence that terrified every boy that looked upon it, was a symbolic sentinel for the frail boy who had called out for a miracle. Ciel had wanted a sign. Just yesterday he had mentally shouted to the statue in agony. Just yesterday. And this morning the board defeated Claude Faustus.

No, not defeated. He was not so naive to believe that this would set the headmaster back. If nothing else, his efforts would redouble, but Ciel thinks he may have a marginal chance of escaping his tormentor today, at least. Surely, if his bold move in this game was countered by unexpected players he would feel the need to fall back and regroup before facing him. The boy trembles, not from joy, but from satisfaction. Deep satisfaction. Claude Faustus' forward momentum has been slowed, and this understanding bolsters the resolve and courage of the charcoal-haired boy.

He is physically shaken out of his reverie by Professor Alfred who feels his forehead. Ciel pulls back quickly, disliking the hot touch of his hand. The boy collects himself, apologizes, makes the excuse that he had a question to discuss with the professor that prompted his early arrival, and then hastily takes his seat. The other boys in his row appear discomfited by the small, darkly smug smile on Ciel Phantomhive's face.

That afternoon…

He did not come.

The normally taciturn boy with one blue is smiling. The nervous glances of his peers serve only to amuse him further. He finds that even without Alois as his constant, bright shadow, he is not hassled in the slightest by those who used to take the opportunity to mock him, hit him, knock books from his hands, and all of the myriad other things that boys will do when they believe they have cornered something weak or inexplicable. In fact, he has only spared one thought for Alois' absence that day, chalking it up to a trivial matter; unruly boys were often held during the lunch hour, and it was no secret to Ciel that Alois was energetic and prone to acts of mischief.

Ciel makes his way triumphantly from his math lesson. Out of a strange impulse, he had decided to wait, to be last to leave, as if to punctuate his victory. When he thinks of how Claude Faustus must be seething, his horrible, yellow eyes narrowed in frustration behind twin panes of glass, he cannot help but feel his step become lighter.

At the water fountain at the end of a silent hall he pauses to have a drink. Despite his earlier bravado, he had sweat all the way through Professor Dawson's lecture on Euclidean geometry, waiting for fate to double-cross him once more, though it did not happen.

With all that is on the boy's mind, it is not surprising that he does not hear or sense a dangerously-heavy tread behind him until it is too late. In the midst of a mouthful of water, Ciel feels his collar roughly grabbed from behind. He is swept almost off his feet, and maintains a slight grip on his balance only because of the hand at the nape of his neck, tiny hairs rising in response to the danger.

Few things cause Ciel Phantomhive to lose his composure. Being touched or grabbed from behind is one of them. This is not Alois, who knows much better. It is also not the headmaster, because the angle at which he is dragged back suggests a shorter stature. Despite having quickly ruled out the worst of suspects, it cannot keep the smaller boy from taking a firm hold of his book of arithmetic, turning, and whipping the text with a rush of adrenaline at the arm imprisoning him.

Robert cries out briefly as the book connects with a nerve in his arm, but like an elephant, the shot only serves to further infuriate him. Ciel turns completely, his chest heaving. Facing his enemy, he can at least cease the tremor in his arm as he loses his grip on his paltry weapon. Ciel stands up straight, his blue eye narrows.

The large boy does not give Ciel a chance to re-collect his momentarily-shaken pride with any haughty words. Instead, he closes the distance between then, takes a fist full of Ciel's crisp collar in his meaty hand, and shoves him into the wall.

Ciel sees tiny bright lights pop like champagne bubbles in his vision. He does not panic. Bullies run in a predictable cycle: they get attention, they enact some sort of physical blow/s, deliver trite, vaguely menacing threats, and then they clear out before they can be caught. The boy with the blue eye must merely wait this out as he has done many times before Alois' arrival.

Robert is getting bold indeed. His face does not register the usual hint of self-consciousness that bullies usually have when engaging in their recalcitrant behavior. "Hello, hello, Ciel. You're walking around like the Prince of Wales these days, but where, oh where, is your little body guard?"

Ciel stares back levelly but says nothing. This is his typical response to bullying; it always has been, and always will be. The ignorance of the weak-willed masses does not deserve a response.

Robert leans close to Ciel's face, and tilts his head slightly. "Let's just cut to the chase, shall we? It's all a sham. I know all about it, Ciel. I know why you don't come to dinner. I know why. You're nothing but a well-bred little whore."

Ciel's eye darkens, his face pales to his everlasting shame and reveals a chink in his armor. A warning beacon is already flashing in the back of his mind; this is not a typical attack.

Robert is not a fat boy. He is not an ugly boy. His face at the moment, however, is the face of ultimate malevolence, glutted on his own narrow-minded ambition. The blue eye is meeting his gaze, but Ciel's legs have become weak. Even a mindless beast can sense weakness. Robert presses his attack.

"I may look like an imbecile to you, but I can add two and two. The private baths? The private dinners? That's how you're paying for it all, your 'French lessons.'" He punctuates the last two words by imitating a froofy French accent coupled with a sing-song tone.

Ciel wants to laugh in his face now. Laugh hysterically. Oh, the irony. To be so misunderstood. To suffer and suffer and suffer and be called a whore, as if he is receiving something in return for his humiliation. As if he somehow benefits from the attention…

The charcoal-haired boy breaks his own rule.

"Do not presume that you know anything about me, and do not touch me so freely." Ciel grabs Robert's wrist and, like a cat, he digs his fingernails into the flesh mercilessly with all the frustrated, mournful strength he can muster.

Robert releases Ciel but immediately slams a hand on the wall next to him, using his proximity and height to loom over the smaller boy.

"Maybe you think that Blondy is going to be around forever to protect you," he hisses in a venomous whisper, "but I have news for you, boy-o. That little whore is two steps from being chucked from this place completely on the grounds of being an 'unmanageable psychopath,' and then what will you do?"

Ciel's one blue eye blinks at this.

Robert presses his taunt.

"What? Doesn't he tell you all about it while you're screwing in the store room? He's been in lock up five times since he's been here. He beat a boy into unconsciousness and laughed like a fair lunatic when he did it." Robert gives it a second to sink in. "Everyone knows he's mad. That's why they stay away…" he leans into Ciel's face, his expression suddenly and deliberately predatory. "But sooner or later, Ciel Phantomhive, he'll be gone. He'll be sent back to prison or maybe straight to an asylum where they'll tie him up and hose him down and beat the crazy out of him."

Ciel swallows. Alois, a lunatic? Perhaps, but his lunacy is relegated mostly to common acts of mischief, to dancing spontaneously, reciting pieces of crude poetry he makes up on the spot, to kissing him with candy-flavoured lips…

"I set all of my clothes and his coat on fire with the matches he had in his pocket. While it burned I dumped him into the river. As the fire bells were ringing I danced back home. And I mean…I pretty much danced."

Ciel's eye goes wide.

These are the truths: In his presence alone, Alois Trancy is manageable. The boy with the blond hair has nothing left to live for but this strange and unfathomable attachment he has formed to the frail, cold boy with one eye. Alois is the only one who knows his truth for what it is. Alois only. He is the only one who has seen behind his mask…and cares for what he sees. As it stands now, Alois Trancy will self-destruct and leave Ciel alone…

Alone.

Until just now, Ciel had considered himself always alone.

At that very moment, with the tall boy leaning over him, realization exploding about his feet like land mines in hostile territory, the boy with the charcoal hair glimpses something rising above the bully's right shoulder like the sun at dawn.

Alois' hair in the dimly-lit hallway seems to give off its own unholy radiance. There is no sound but Robert's heaving breath and the rush and pound of blood in Ciel's veins. The boy with the unkempt socks and unbuttoned collar, the boy who has tried at every turn to hold his hand or touch his lips, the boy who has trotted behind him faithfully like a puppy, or charged before him like a hunting hound, is now fully in view. His eyes are burning with blue hellfire, wide, and an impossible grin twists his features into a caricature of some satanic jester. There is not one gleam of rational thought there as he stares down at his prey: the boy he admitted he had entertained the notion of killing.

Ciel feels he is watching this in slow motion, fascinated and horrified and in a state of shock.

Slowly, stealthily, Alois raises his right hand. Something glints in the weak light. Ciel can feel Alois' indrawn breath, the tensing of muscles, the firming of the grip on his weapon, the spark of a thought about to become reality.

"Stop!"

Ciel's unnaturally loud voice is the only warning Robert gets, but it is delivered too late and he never see the danger coming. Alois' fist descends. At the last moment he angles the glinting instrument to the side and uses his knuckles to punch the taller boy in the side of the face with such ferocity that he is knocked prone almost instantly. Out cold.

Ciel stands in shock. Alois swiftly pockets the sharp glint of metal, his smile so recognizable now that the boy with the charcoal hair would have simply assumed it was "normal." Except that he very nearly murdered a boy. In front of him.

"And the curtain falls. The audience goes wild! Demands an encore!" He collects Ciel's books in one hand and the other boys' wrist in the other.

"Don't you hear that, Ciel? This scene is over. We should probably exit stage left." The sound of Alois' giggles as they race out of the building to the courtyard is the currency of a mad man.

To be continued